


Fussy

by sahiya



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-28
Updated: 2010-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taste buds are tricky little buggers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fussy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Fuzzyboo03 for the beta.

  
Taste buds were tricky little buggers.

Well, to be fair, they never had been before. He'd always had a fondness for certain foods - Jelly Babies, bananas, jam, chocolate - every self he'd ever been thought chocolate was _brilliant_ \- but it wasn't very often that he came across something he hated. He prided himself on his cast-iron stomach, his willingness to try anything, and tastes that ranged across all of space and time, from the most primitive meal of meat and root vegetables in the Middle Ages, to the height of haught cuisine in New to the _nth_ New York. It was all part of the traveling, he'd told more than one dubious companion faced with a plateful of blue goo. You couldn't ask questions - you just had to jump straight in, feet first!

And now . . . now he was _fussy_.

Of all the things he'd feared he might end up with - two heads, breasts, another silly nose - fussy taste buds had never been among them. Apples were out, anything with lumpy bits in it was out, anything with a funny texture - strange, he'd always thought it was all about taste, but the taste of beans was fine, it was their texture he couldn't stand. And fried tomatoes - they were the worst. Forget the whole of an English breakfast, actually, with its horrible runny eggs and mushy tomatoes and shriveled mushrooms, not to mention the bacon and beans and toast that had been _fried in bacon fat_. Just the thought of it turned his stomach.

This was just not on, he decided after watching Amy - who was possibly the least fussy companion he'd ever had - devour street food from a market on their fourth planet. It wasn't gourmet, true, and he suspected that the TARDIS's translation of "chicken" had been loose at best, but any of his previous selves would have enjoyed it just fine.

Taste buds were tricky little buggers. But he was the Doctor and he would bloody well make his behave.

***

"I think," Amy said, hands on her hips, "that we can call this a failed experiment."

The Doctor surveyed the carnage that was the TARDIS kitchen and sighed. The list of things he wouldn't touch had grown by leaps and bounds in the course of his experimentation. It now included lettuce of any kind (too leafy), spaghetti sauce (too chunky), strawberries (too many seeds), raw tomatoes (too many textures), meat that was the slightest bit pink (too much like blood), raw fish (too slimy), and ice cream (too cold, it made his teeth ache).

The list of things he would eat included cheese toasties, soup with no chunks, chocolate (as long as it didn't have nuts in it), plain yogurt, oranges (as long as he picked off all the white bits), carrots, scrambled eggs (as long as they were neither runny nor brown), bananas (some things, at least, were a constant), and jam. Unless it had too many seeds.

Seeds were evil.

Amy shrugged and hopped up to sit on the last clean square foot of counter space. "So you're a fussy eater. So what? When we were kids, Rory wouldn't eat anything that had touched anything else on his plate. His mum had to buy those plates with compartments, because if the peas touched the carrots, he wouldn't eat either of them."

The Doctor gave her a look. "This is the bloke you're going to marry."

"Well, he's not like that now. He grew out of it by the time he was ten."

"Brilliant," the Doctor said, throwing up his arms. "I'm so old, I can't even remember how old I am, and I've got the palate of a six year old British school boy. We can go anywhere you like, but we can't stay longer than five hours, because then I have to come back to the TARDIS for cheese toasties and tomato soup. What utter rubbish."

"So we'll pack a lunch for you."

"Pack a - you're missing the point!"

"It'd help if you came to one!"

"I'm a traveler!" the Doctor burst out. "It's not just what I do, it's who I am! I've been doing it for so long, I can't even remember how to do anything else! I can eat almost anything, way more than you can - which, incidentally, is something _else_ that's going to be a problem, because sometimes I'll have to taste things to make sure you can eat them, and won't that just be wizard with this bloody gag reflex -"

"Doctor -"

"So my _point_," the Doctor said, raising his voice, "is that that I _cannot_ be a fussy eater!"

"Well, you are," Amy snapped, arms crossed over her chest. "You think we all like every little detail about ourselves? You think it was fun growing up Scottish in an English village with this hair?"

"I -"

"Shut it. You hate that you're a fussy eater. I get it. But as the person standing next to you, I'd appreciate it if you found a solution that didn't involve spewing everything back out!" Amy turned on her heel and stalked out.

The Doctor gaped after her. "Well," he said aloud. "Wasn't that . . . bracing."

TARDISes weren't supposed to laugh at their Time Lords, but the Doctor was pretty certain there was something distinctly _giggly_ in his TARDIS's thrum just then.

***

"Doctor, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Of course I'm sure!" the Doctor said, settling his serviette in his lap with a flourish. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well . . ." Amy bit her lip and glanced around at the spotless linen, sparkling crystal, and tuxedo-clad waiters. "This place is really _nice_."

"For these prices, it had better be," the Doctor muttered, glancing down at his menu.

"It's also really . . . French. Which means," she went on, when the Doctor raised an eyebrow at her, "there's bound to be lots of, um, complicated food. With sauces. And textures."

"Don't worry."

"_Don't worry_? I'm sitting across from _you_ in a French restaurant!" And wearing cream, she didn't add. The sonic washing machine on the TARDIS could probably get most stains out, but Amy didn't really want to test that theory with bordelaise sauce and angora.

"I have a plan."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Oh good. That makes me feel better."

"Sir? Madam?" the waiter said. "I am Pierre and I shall be your waiter this evening. Do you have any questions about the menu or our wine selection?"

"No," Amy said, closing hers. "I think I'm ready. I'd like the French onion soup, please, and the poached halibut."

"Excellent selections, madam," the waiter said with a slight bow as he collected her menu. "And for you, sir?"

"I have a few questions," the Doctor said. "I was thinking about starting with the asparagus soup. Tell me, is it chunky?"

The waiter raised his eyebrows. "No, sir, it is a pureed soup, with a swirl of creme fraiche. Very subtle and smooth."

"Smooth is good," the Doctor said, nodding. "Er . . . can you hold the creme fraiche? Better safe than sorry."

The waiter made a face as though he'd smelled something unfortunate. "Yes, if we must."

"Thank you. Now, the filet mignon, how is that prepared?"

"_Excellent_ choice, sir. The chef prepares it medium rare -"

"Mmm," the Doctor shook his head. "No, I'd like it well-done."

This time, the look the waiter gave the Doctor was truly horrified. "But, _sir_ -"

"Well done," he insisted. "No pink in the middle. And can you cut off any fatty bits? I can't stand the fatty bits."

The waiter's lips were pressed together. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly. "And for dessert?"

"The blacktie cheesecake," Amy said promptly. She'd been thinking about it for hours now, ever since the Doctor had shown her the menu for this place and told her he fancied a nice meal.

"Hmm . . . the flourless chocolate cake. Does that come with anything on it?"

The waiter looked as though he'd bitten into a very sour lemon. "It is garnished with whipped cream, strawberries, and a drizzle of chocolate sauce."

"Not on mine, thank you." The Doctor held his menu out.

The waiter snatched it away and held it protectively against his chest. "And have you selected a wine?" he asked, in an even tone that clearly hid a desire for culinary revenge.

The Doctor shrugged. "Whatever you think would be best."

They would be lucky not to end up with the cooking sherry. Amy gave the waiter what she hoped was a conspiratorial smile. He returned it, stiffly, and left.

The Doctor gave a sigh of satisfaction. "There," he said to Amy with a smile. "I told you I had a plan. And if all else fails," he patted the pocket of his jacket, "I have a transdimensional handkerchief in which I can hide _anything_. Problem solved."

Amy crossed her arms over her chest and opened her mouth to say something along the lines of, _That man is going to spit in your food_. But then she thought of the cheesecake, and how what the Doctor didn't know couldn't possibly hurt him. "Very clever," she said, reaching for her water glass.

The Doctor settled back. "Of course it was."

_Fin._


End file.
